Last fall, I was making a quick run through Deseret Industries. It was late in the day, and most of the store had been picked over by the astounding number of ever-present antique dealers. But there, sitting on an old tattered couch, was a bright orange, classic Chantal tea kettle. Of course, I really had no clue about its make or model when I picked it up, or that the orange color was no longer in production, I just knew that it was beautiful. Heavy, enameled cast iron, and shiny, stainless steel—it would look great in my kitchen, and I was eager to take it home and try it out. I examined it to make sure the lid fit properly and the spout closed all the way. When everything seemed to be in place, I paid my four dollars, and drove home feeling quite good about my keen eye.
Patrick affirmed my new find when I walked through the door, and I headed straight for the kitchen to fill it with water to test it out. As the water began boiling, I stood there anticipating the classic whistle of the steam, but to both our astonishment, this little beauty let out the unique sound of a harmonica. The tune resonated in our kitchen as I squealed with delight. I then grabbed my french press, ready to celebrate this new culinary addition by enjoying some coffee. Patrick—always more cautious than I—hesitated, suggesting that we pour the water in a mug and examine it before imbibing. Reluctantly, I agreed.
A minute later, we both stood there staring at a white mug filled with steamy water and little black flecks of something. Not wanting to admit that the tea kettle might be worthless, I concluded that it probably just needed a good scrubbing. That method failed, and again the water was speckled with little black particles. We searched the internet looking for some solution in order to salvage the tea kettle. Every site said the same thing. The bottom had been scorched, and the kettle was ruined.
Since our house was on the market, and the kettle looked so stylish in our kitchen, I decided to keep it for a while. Every time we had an agent come through the house, I would pull it out of the cupboard and put it on the stove, wishing each time that it was usable. Sometimes I even boiled water in it just to hear the harmonica. After we moved, I had intended to throw it away, but somehow, I think it got mixed in with our donation pile! I think it probably ended up at Goodwill, enticing another poor victim with its charm, only to later disappoint them. I feel terribly guilty for donating it—even if it was by accident—as it goes against one of my thrifting principles.
For months, I searched the thrift stores hoping to find another Chantal. I even checked bargain stores like Marshalls and Ross, thinking that maybe I would come across one with a price tag lower than the $99 regular price. Nothing. Then today, my doorbell rang and a box sat outside on the doormat. It was a brand new Chantal tea kettle, this time in yellow, from my sweet husband for my birthday. I love happy endings.
